American wedding tradition encourages its primary participants to seek something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. Well, neither Kevin or myself are getting hitched anytime soon, but in honor of those many casualties of our class, a Jamaican restaurant seemed fitting. Tropical Grill near the immigrant-wares heavy Hillcroft, is certainly not new, but new enough to us. As far as borrowed and blue, all I saw was a mélange of yellow, green and black and chances are its owner was not keen on letting us borrow anything we weren't going to purchase first.
In any case, its going on my list of great Houstonian buffets. My recommendation is the stewed chicken. Its as tangy, savory, and addictive as those lovely Boondocks comics. Ask Kevin. He pretty much single-handedly put a belt-loosening hurtin' on that poor buffet. Kevin's potential tapeworm, however, was not the highlight of the day.
The Museum of Fine Arts Houston has been touting their new Basquiat exhibit for some time, and given that my roomy and I had plenty of the latter, we decided to check it out. Apparently Basquiat was a Peurtorican/Afro-American Brooklyn native whose creative genius burst brightly on the scene a couple of decades ago and then just as quickly was extinguished by an early death. We inquired further with the oh-so-helpful museum employee at the front desk. What's this? You say there will be DJs, art, and student discounts? This evening? Sweet like molasses.
Hands down the coolest party I've been to this year (New Years Eve in San Francisco, I must note was of the 2004 calendar year). Now, I haven't seen one of these in Houston before; I'm QUITE thankful for that clairvoyant soul that suggested, "Hey, why don't we, I dunno, combine visual arts, music, and an eclectic, energetic, artsy crowd?" Merci à Dieu. One does of course have to tolerate the big corporate JP Morgan Chase signs and a legion Starbucks baristas lauding their largess, but no matter. Generally speaking I like these sort of events mostly for people watching. Basquiat's work was also very reflective of the crowd. Multi-culturally influenced, visually cacophonous, and cooler than Michael Jackson circa 1985. Also, to that frequent Houston question, "Where are all the gorgeous, artsy chics?" HERE. Right here.
If you missed it, sorry. They're gone now.
Normally, speaking the 1am hour in Houston, even on a Saturday can be gastronomically pretty desolate. After a quite HoustonPress search, voila, Last Pie, open till 3am "because someone has too." Kevin and I agreed, and as such headed out. Pretty much its a former mechanic garage, it fittingly lends itself only to the young, counter-culture urbanites that it attracts. That's where we met that creative soul, Ed.
Ed was high.
Almost positive his u. tox would show a variety of controlled, less than legal substances. Ed draws on paper plates. Given the plentiful paper plates available for the (delicious) New York style pizza they serve, one can only expect that Ed must draw on them, place Spanish language poems on them, and then pass them to Kevin and I. I had just assumed that chico was hitting on the two of us, but nope, he was just high and friendly. Ed wanted us to draw on paper plates as well. Given the general nature of the evening, we obliged in a creative camaraderie. Before we could finish our Afro-Persian grand oeuvre, Ed decides he needs to tell us a story.
This is the place were I would detail the wonderful coherent, logical, and ultimately rewarding and amusing allegory our new stoned friend offered. But alas, he was higher than a kite. His story, involving a Mexican film, a dog trapped in the floor, and rather agitated hand movements was neither coherent nor logical, but rewarding. Somewhere in is circular, repetitive thoughts we discovered that we didn't know anyone like this guy. One of the things you potentially give up in Medical School Lent I suppose. His friends implored him to join them to leave, which he did....eventually, but not before this picture.
What did we learn from this? Polysubstance abuse may make you interesting, but your stories suck. Sorry, but they do, but join us anytime.
Truly the most kick-arse film of the year. Docu-drama-esque recount of the Israeli hostage situation at hte 1972 Summer Olympics. More than that however, it follows the nihilist nature of revenge and violence that is both consuming and immersive. Now just for the record, I'm no Zionist nor ultraconservative Iranian President, but I felt that Spielberg gave a fairly heavy deconstructed view of the efforts of both (i.e. Golda and the Palestinians). Through introspectively eloquent dialogue and startlingly appropriate imagery the true nature of vengeance is laid bare. The film-goers' traditional paradigm of terrorist and patriot are sequentially marred until they ultimately implode at the end of the film. Its nice to see Spielberg with some cajones.
Somehow this former stage actor has managed to play roles in a quarter of my favorite films this year. Incredibly genuine in each role its hard to imagine its the same guy. From a 1980s surly gay New York nurse (Angels in America), to a over-educated pinstripe modern day Uncle Tom (Syriana), to the Jamaican neighbor as effervescent as he is inquisitive (Broken Flowers). Wright is an amazing and incredibly underrated actor. Not only that, he was born in DC! He's also apparently played the role of Basquiat (per my earlier blogs) that I must check out as well. In any case, he's got more things in development than Apple, so we have a lot to look forward to I'm sure.
